


Good Vibes

by epiproctan, flyingisland



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 20:43:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17815193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epiproctan/pseuds/epiproctan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland
Summary: It’s just a joke about how loud Lance is, until it’s not. It’s just a bet that Keith can’t stay quiet, until suddenly Keith is out at dinner with a remote-controlled vibe lodged inside of him that could go off at any moment.Lance refuses to play nice. Keith refuses to lose.





	Good Vibes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [googlyeyeseyes123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/googlyeyeseyes123/gifts).



 

It started as a joke, or… at least, Keith would like to think so, but anymore, he isn’t entirely confident in whether or not Lance might be holding some sort of grudge. Or trying to punish him, or exacting his sadistic revenge in ways so outlandish that this entire situation almost reminds him of that weird movie about the kids in the candy factory that Lance had forced him to sit through when they first moved in together.

He doesn’t know if Lance just wants him to understand his point of view, or if he’s angry, or if he was just looking for the first excuse to force Keith into a situation this horrible, but…

It had started innocently enough. Keith had only the best of intentions. And now, days later, he would like to be remembered after the unavoidable, inevitable death of his soul as a person who had only tried to be honest and good. A person who didn’t deserve a single part of this.

A man undone by his own hubris, betrayed by the lover in whom he’d invested every ounce of his naive, misguided trust.

But the root of the issue, the beginning of everything, had admittedly started months ago when they’d first moved in after signing their lease. They’d unlocked the doors and promptly ignored their boxes. They’d christened the empty floors of their new home in a way all too consistent with young, sexually-charged lovers finding themselves in their own private space for the very first time. 

And later on, over the following weeks, a pattern began to emerge:

In the depth of the night, in the dark and the loose cocoon of their sheets rested over naked bodies, Keith had tucked himself against Lance’s backside, lifting his knees to rest against his shoulders, his ankles locked together behind Keith’s head. He’d buried himself so deep inside of Lance and pulled out, pressed in, and snaked an arm between his thighs to stroke him in time with his thrusts. Lance had lost himself in the sensation of it—in the feeling of Keith’s mouth closing around his, the feeling of his hot lips pressed into Lance’s skin, how that angle then, of Keith pushing further down to kiss him, only buried Keith’s cock ever-deeper inside of him. And Lance hadn’t been afraid to moan then, to babble in incoherent, inordinate pleasure. Lance claims even now that he’s never even spared a moment’s thought on how loud he can get under the right circumstances. He’d reasoned that “everyone else appreciated his enthusiasm just fine”. 

And while Keith had many opportunities during this argument to point out that Lance’s repertoire of sexual experiences prior to their relationship was as empty and cob-webbed as the storage locker assigned to their apartment number in the basement that Lance has always been too creeped out by to actually use for its intended purpose—well, he’d decided to instead fight one important battle at a time.

And that morning’s battle had decidedly been to tackle Lance’s noisiness, and to address the growing amount of complaints that their landlord had relayed to them over the last six months that they’ve been living together in this complex. 

Lance, thus far, had all but shrugged it off. But Keith had known the very real danger of being evicted, had known how it would feel to lose a home and find himself wandering aimlessly in search of the next viable shelter. And maybe Lance had lived a comfy enough life that the concept of actually getting them kicked out of this place was so outlandish to him that he wouldn’t even entertain the idea of it, but, no matter how inane and unrealistic the threats had seemed to Lance, Keith just wasn’t particularly interested in being booted from their apartment just because Lance couldn’t stop himself from practically screaming every time that they made love.

So, over cereal, while Lance flipped through social media on his phone, as Keith listened to the staticky weather report humming over the radio and took a long sip of his coffee, he’d decided to address the issue in a clear and concise way. He’d gone about it professionally, firm but level-headed in a manner that, at the time, he’d hoped would command the proper level of respect for just how precarious of a line they were currently toeing. 

Lance hadn’t reacted in the collected and mature manner that he’d foolishly expected. Lance, of course, could have only reacted like Lance. Keith wasn’t sure even moments later why he’d thought that broaching the subject different could have tipped the scales in his favor, when Lance, he’d known all along, wasn’t the type of person to take criticism well.  He’d balked at the mere suggestion that Keith would be unhappy with any aspect of his bedroom etiquette. He’d been colored so pink and his eyes had grown so wide and rounded that Keith had worried idly, for a short moment, that he might actually be at risk of exploding. 

And he’d sputtered soon after, “I-it’s not that big of a deal, Keith! I’m _ not _ that loud!”

Keith had been prepared for that. He’d made a point of digging through their small manila folder of rent receipts and the lease, paid electric bills and anything else that they might have needed on hand for various record-keeping purposes, and he’d found a small stack of written reports that the landlord and at various points had slipped into their letterbox. There were three of them at the time, all filed by different neighbors. All complaining about the same noise. All from various periods during the day when the two of them had found some time to mess around and Lance had regrettably become entirely too receptive to whatever Keith had chosen to do to him at the time.

He’d breathed a long sigh. Lance had adamantly refused to read over the papers again. He’d already seen them, he claimed, and he didn’t understand why some complaints from a few prudes should dictate the way that he reacted to pleasure in his own bedroom, kitchen, and living room.

Keith had rolled his eyes.

“It’s not hard, Lance,” he’d said, “Just be quieter. It’s not like I’m asking you to stop having sex. Just stop making so much noise while you’re doing it.”

Lance’s responding expression had been so scandalized that Keith might as well have asked him to personally visit each of their neighbors and explain in explicit detail exactly what was happening to make him make such loud noises in the first place. 

And Keith had realized with a spike of a headache scoring already just between his eyebrows, that this endeavor was going to be a lot more of a hassle than it should have been.

And he couldn’t even say back then that he blamed Lance, because Lance, of course, by nature took these things very seriously. Even at that moment, Keith had felt just a little bit guilty for suggesting that anything was wrong with how he experienced pleasure, how he chose to express that pleasure. He knew that his feelings would be hurt if Lance complained about how he did it. He knew that it wasn’t really fair, and if he didn’t think that admitting it out loud would only cement Lance’s argument, it definitely didn’t bother him at all. If anything, it did wonders for his ego.

But he just wished that Lance could understand the position that they were in. He hadn’t known exactly the right way to articulate the fact that still stood: that if Lance didn’t quiet down, they were going to get evicted from this complex, and probably the next, and every place around the city until inevitably they were left squawking like tomcats in heat in abandoned alleyways where they’d been forced to set up camp, and… even then, Lance’s yelling would probably still manage to get them in trouble somehow.

But instead of making a big deal out of it, instead of causing a scene or storming off or expressing the clear hurt that Keith had caused him in a more Lance-like fashion, Lance had grinned wide and feline-esque. He’d crossed his arms over his chest. And he’d laughed once, loud and sharp in a boisterous and cocky way that was clearly manufactured to cover up just how mortified he was still feeling about everything that had just unfolded unexpectedly over breakfast. 

“Fine,” he’d said, “You think it’s so easy to stay cool when you’re feeling as good as you make me feel?”

Keith had choked on his nervous sip of coffee when Lance said that. He’d felt his ears burning and he’d smothered the second wave of apologies that rose in his throat. But Lance had continued before he’d been given the opportunity to feel too good about the compliment. He’d tipped his head to the side, tapping through a few pages on his phone before sliding it in Keith’s direction. 

“If it’s that easy, let’s make a bet, okay? If you can handle feeling that good without making a sound—even just a peep, Keith—then yeah, sure, I’ll be quieter.”

Keith had taken a moment to allow his gaze to slide down and settle on Lance’s phone in front of him. He’d moved his bowl out of the way, grasping the phone and holding it just a little bit closer to his face to study the words and the picture on the screen. He hadn’t been able to discern any understanding of what in the world it was—something listed as a “discreet remote controlled egg” that appeared to be only a simple oblong mass of silicone attached to a narrow string that ended in a clasp that, if the limited diagram told him anything, was supposed to be clasped around the thigh. The description gave little away as well. It went on to explain the distance at which the remote could be activated for the “egg”, but for the life of him, he had no clue what any of it meant. He couldn’t tell what the egg’s function was. The accompanying images in the slide only showed couples lying together in bed, the egg in different colors and positions. And a strange image of it superimposed and blurry in a way that implied that it was rattling around very hard.

He’d never seen anything like it before. Admittedly, he’d never been the most internet savvy person in the world. But Lance seemed to think that he should be intimidated just by the sight of it. He seemed to have thought that the egg was, in some shape or form, the ace that he’d been hiding up his sleeve all along.

There was a little filled-in yellow star at the top corner of the page that indicated that it was something from Lance’s bookmarks.

Keith wondered, bewildered, how long he’d been waiting to suggest the idea of buying it. He still couldn’t figure out what in the world it even did.

He looked back to Lance, who was studying his expression carefully.

“So what do you say, bigshot?” Lance had raised an eyebrow coyly. He’d folded his fingers in front of his face, elbows rested on the table. “Ready to put your money where your mouth is?”

Keith had swallowed thickly. He wouldn’t figure out for a few days exactly what he was getting himself into, but he knew, and Lance knew too, that he had a hard time passing up a challenge. Lance knew that Keith was willing to do just about anything to put this argument behind them.

It took two days for the package to arrive, and only then, only the night before they’d agreed to see this dare through to the end did Keith finally garner the nerve to ask Lance what the challenge even entailed, and what the function of the egg was, as he’d peeled the tape from the box and dug through the packing peanuts in search of it. 

Keith had refused, outright, on the spot. He’d been so mortified when Lance activated the egg and showed off how it vibrated on various intensity settings that he’d nearly stormed out of their living room.

But Lance had known just how to stop him.

“What, is the big, bad Keith scared of a little egg?”

Hook, line, and sinker.

Keith was infuriated by how easily Lance could read him and pull his strings. And he’d watched the way that the egg danced around in Lance’s palm, swallowed thickly as Lance tested the distance by laying it on the coffee table and pressing random buttons on the remote as he took careful steps further and further away.

He was going to die. He was going to die, and Lance was only going to laugh as he pulled back the trigger. 

 

The beginning doesn’t really matter now, when he thinks about it. Now that he’s living in the dreaded “day of”, he realizes that nothing that got him here matters in the face of where he needs to go.

Keith is twitchy, anxious, and uncomfortable in his seat. He’s sitting across a nicely-decorated table with a thick, dark tablecloth from Lance, who is fumbling with something in his lap that Keith is absolutely determined to keep pretending doesn’t exist. He tells himself that he can will it out of reality. He swears to himself that they aren’t wasting their late Valentine’s Day date at this nice restaurant on Lance’s stupid, nasty bet. Lance made these reservations over a month ago. He was trying to be romantic. Coming here meant a lot to him, so surely, he wouldn’t ruin it just because he enjoys torturing Keith more than anything else. Surely, he was only bluffing when he claimed that he really was going to activate the toy at some point tonight, and Keith would only be able to guess when that time would come.

They were already five minutes late getting here. Keith had wasted nearly thirty minutes trying to find the nerve to actually shove that terrible little thing inside of him, locked safely in their bathroom away from Lance’s prying eyes. It wasn’t the first time that anything had been inside of him, and it wasn’t even the first toy that he’d used either, but the idea of its intended purpose and the plans that Lance had for both of them stopped him from being able to finish quicker. From being able to just grow up, calm down, and face his punishment just as he’d promised Lance that he would.

And Lance, the goddamn dirty sadist that he is, hadn’t had a single reservation about activating it the moment that Keith finally managed to put it inside. He’d spent just a little bit too long preparing himself, he knows. He’d hesitated with lubed fingers before he’d pressed them inside of himself, taken many quick breaks to quell his own embarrassment while Lance waited outside of the door, still offering to help if he needed it.

Something about the fact that Lance knew that he was fingering himself just through a thin barrier of wood and wall made the whole thing ten times worse. Something about realizing that Lance would undoubtedly abuse the new power that he’d developed over Keith’s physical state had made him wish that he could actually just open the door and admit,  _ ‘Yes, sorry Lance, you were right. Fuck having a home. Fuck having a roof over our heads. The loud wailing is definitely worth it. The amazing sex and the ego boost are absolutely, one-hundred-percent worth it. You were right and I was wrong, now please don’t make me go out in public with this goddamn vibrating egg up my ass.’ _

That fleeting moment of pleasure humming inside of him had already been enough to scatter his thoughts and render him practically incoherent. It had taken another fifteen minutes to collect himself after Lance turned it off, just under five seconds later, before the two of them could finally leave and make their way to the restaurant.

And he makes sure that Lance knows that he hates him every time that he looks in his direction. In a silent language of glares and bared teeth. In a vivid display of himself cracking those weird little hard breadsticks between his fingers and imagining that they’re Lance’s stupid, scrawny neck instead.

There’s a pressure inside of him. Not moving, not insistent, not yet. But he’s incredibly aware of it pressed there, snugly lodged within him. It’s something that he could probably forget about, let exist there without his attention or focus being drawn towards it, if he wasn’t so wholly cognizant of what Lance may or may not be planning to inflict on him at any moment. Keith doesn’t hate the feeling of it wedged in there, but he does hate the knowledge of what it could be used to do any time now, and he’s hypervigilant of the possibility that each and every second could be the one where he finds his nerves assaulted from within.

He tenses nervously when the waitress stops by to introduce herself and ask for drink orders, because he knows Lance. He knows Lance and he knows that Lance is just the kind of person in this situation to wait for the most inopportune moment to dial up their little toy, e.g. when their unsuspecting waitress is hovering over his shoulder, or when Keith is opening his mouth to ask for, “Just water.” Even as the words slip out of his mouth his shoulders stay tight, his eyebrows lowered in preparation for the onslaught of stimuli. But then the waitress is nodding, tucking her pen behind her ear, and walking away, and Keith’s lower body is not feeling any sort of unnatural motion. 

Keith turns to Lance, eyebrows raised, feeling almost incredulous. He lets his shoulders drop, lets his hands unclench from fists, and opens his mouth to say something snide. 

And snaps it back closed audibly as something buzzes within him. 

“This is a nice place, huh?” Lance says, looking around, as Keith swallows the yelp that had threatened to rise out of him. He presses his lips closed and shuts his eyes because whoa.  _ Whoa _ . 

This definitely feels like something. It’s not like Keith has never had a toy up in him before but. Wow. This is new territory. He knows it’s only on a low setting. At least his  _ wonderful _ boyfriend was  _ kind _ enough to not slam him all at once. But knowing what’s tucked inside of him while he’s in public, in this open room with dozens of others, any of whom could look at him, or bump into him, or, god forbid,  _ speak _ to him, makes the entire situation unmanageable, somehow.

And of course, he remembers the bet. There’s no way he’s going to lose this, not against Lance, not even if it kills him. But there is some strange, awful vicious cycle that goes along with this. Having to not let anyone in their surroundings know what’s going on inside of him is weirdly...arousing.

“I like those light fixtures,” Lance goes on, shit-eating grin evident in his tone. Keith opens his eyes to see Lance isn’t even looking at any light fixtures. Nope, he’s just staring at Keith, his expression smug and his eyebrows raised expectantly, like he’s waiting for Keith to burst into moans at any second. 

_ Yeah right. You wish _ . 

Keith tries not to shift his weight and therefore press his little belonging into anything more sensitive as he pulls the tablecloth over his lap to hide a small problem he might be growing there. Even if their waitress was his ancient bitch of a boss Haggar, he wouldn’t wish the mortification of seeing a diner at a restaurant tenting in his pants under the table on her. 

“How do you feel?” Lance asks, clearly eager for a reaction to his goading comments. 

“Fine,” Keith replies through gritted teeth. 

And it’s not a complete lie, he is mostly fine. The thing is definitely in there, and it’s definitely going, and it’s definitely distracting as all hell, but while it feels interesting, good even, it’s not really pressed up on anything that would have him losing his mind. As the seconds pass, he becomes more and more accustomed to it. If he just sits here, exactly in this position, for the rest of the night, maybe this won’t be too much of a problem at all. So long as Lance takes it up slowly, a little bit at a time, Keith is sure he’ll win this easily. 

“I bet you feel fine,” Lance replies, grin still in place. “I bet you feel better than fine.” 

Keith shoots him a glare that must be sharper than his usual one, because Lance’s smile flickers for a second. But it stays on his face regardless, and it ignites something in Keith. Something besides the arousal he’s trying to fight off, that is. Keith is determined that at the end of this Lance won’t be the one smiling anymore. 

Maybe after this, after he wins, he’ll take him home and stick the damn toy up his ass, and see how he likes it. Maybe they’ll test out the boundaries of Lance’s new agreement. Maybe Keith will prep Lance nice and slow, with his fingers, with his tongue, with the toy, and then hold him down against the mattress, slide in leisurely, without any rush, and remind him over and over again that Keith was the winner, that Lance needs to keep it down. And if Lance has any trouble with that, maybe Keith can kiss him quiet, or use Lance’s mouth for other things like—

Wow, uh, okay. So it turns out that thinking about fucking his boyfriend isn’t really helping with Keith’s arousal problem. And the more turned on he gets, the more aware he is that he’s, uh. Full. 

He switches his attention instead to the waitress, who has returned with his water, completely unaware of Keith’s current predicament. Keith tries to be as casual as possible when thanking her, keeping the waver out of his voice as best as he can. 

“Do you two know what you’d like yet?” she asks them cheerfully, glancing from Lance’s beaming face to Keith, who probably looks at least as uncomfortable as he feels. 

“I don’t know,” Lance says, his smile turning sly. He’s not even looking back at the waitress, his entire focus on Keith. “Do we, Keith?”

Keith hasn’t even glanced at the menu yet, and he doubts that he ever will. It’s hard to focus on things like words when there’s something vibrating inside of him. He wonders if anyone else can hear the buzz of it. He imagines that he can, but it might just be that he can  _ feel _ it, deep and insistent. 

“I’ll have the special,” he manages, thrusting the menu lying unopened on the table at the waitress. 

Having clearly not picked up his menu yet either, Lance’s eyes widen, and he scrambles to grab the other one, quickly glancing over the names of foods too fancy or foreign for him to pronounce. 

“I’ll take uhh,” he says, leaning in close the to words on the page. His panic serves him right. “The chicken! Thanks.”

The waitress gives the both of them a bit of a look, but she thanks them and turns to head back towards the kitchen, hopefully none the wiser. That leaves Lance and Keith staring each other down once again in silence. 

Except that’s not any better. Lance is...well, Keith’s dating him for a reason. He’s kind of beautiful. Really, really hot. It reminds Keith of his earlier train of thought, and why they’re doing this in the first place. It makes Keith think of how Lance might help him take out this damn thing later, and maybe replace it with one of his own body parts. 

But that’s not a path Keith wants to go down right now, because that only makes things worse. 

He breathes long and low, steadying himself against the table with white knuckles pressed into the cloth. He buries his teeth lightly into his bottom lip, training his thoughts on anything but the consistent pulsating of the toy deep inside of him, or the feeling of Lance’s eyes weighing heavily on the surface of his skin.

His eyes slip closed for a long moment. Idly, he registers that Lance has started talking to him again. His legs are falling asleep in his current position, his hip is propped up in a way that aches along his midriff. He feels uncomfortable sitting up and straight and far too bunched up to look even remotely natural. But he’s terrified of what he might feel if he moves. He can feel the buckle of the toy chafing into his thigh. For a moment, with eyelashes fluttering against his heated cheeks and his teeth digging harder and rougher into his lip, he’s reminded of the feeling of Lance grazing his mouth and nails over his skin.

He clears his throat. His eyes snap open and he pointedly ignores the whites of Lance’s teeth glistening under the soft, ambient lamplight as he beams back at him.

“D—don’t you have anything else to look at?”

His words are a rough bark, low and garbled with bubbling emotion lodged deep and caged in his throat. Lance’s shoulders drop lower, cavalier as he waves a hand in the air. He leans further forward, resting his chin in the cup of his open palm, one elbow propped firmly on the table. He has no manners, but neither does Keith. Neither of them is acting appropriately right now, considering how high the bill for tonight’s dinner will eventually end up being.

“You’re the prettiest thing in here though,” Lance tells him, “Especially all hot and bothered like this.”

Keith snaps his mouth closed. Under the table, he can see the muscles of Lance’s arm twitching as he fiddles with the “thing” in his lap. The vibrations halt abruptly, and Keith can’t stop himself from sinking lower into his seat. He can breathe again, in a free relief that he only notices once his body naturally un-contorts itself. His muscles ease, his skin cools. He tries to convince himself that he isn’t just a little disappointed that the feeling went away instead of amplifying.

Lance takes a sip of his drink, smiling at Keith with those insufferably coy eyes over the rim of it. It clinks as he sets it back down on the table, skimming the edge of his empty serving plate. Neither of them has touched the bread or the butter in the centerpiece basket. Neither of them has even considered putting food in their mouths. The mini-breadsticks are a crumbled pile on Keith’s open napkin in front of him. The condensation of his glass rolls down the sides and wets the tablecloth around it.

Keith breathes in again, longer and deeper, rattled with the slow-fading nerves that he can feel like live electricity working through his veins. He rests his back more firmly against his chair. Finally, he situates himself into a more comfortable position. The stiffness between his legs perseveres, but it’s easier to ignore now. He knows that he isn’t saved now by any means, knows that this is only the beginning of a very long dinner and an even longer night. But, for now, he revels in this fleeting moment of freedom and calm. He convinces himself for a brief moment that it’s all over. He’s saved now, he’s spared from any further humiliation. He isn’t disappointed at the thought of it, either. He doesn’t feel even remotely cheated by the concept of Lance refusing to touch that remote for the rest of the night.

Lance has shown mercy on him. It’s over. He can start to calm down, compose himself, and he won’t have to think about the toy still tucked inside of him for the rest of tonight.

Until, suddenly, the waitress returns. 

Lance smiles at her easily, thanking her as she sets his plate in front of him. Keith, thoughts still a little glazed and still coming down from the jittery anxiety that he’d overcome just moments ago, is less vocal. He doesn’t trust his words now any more than he’d trusted them when she’d first come over. He can still feel the pressure of the egg embedded inside of him, pressed up at a dangerous angle that he knows he’ll regret the moment that Lance decides to torture him again.

Which, he realizes with much mortification, comes a lot sooner than he was anticipating. Truly, Lance is the most despicable human being to have ever cursed the lands with his malevolent presence. Akin to demons and devils, a dark brand on the Earth that might beckon the end of time and goodness and light.

But right now, he’s started his evil plot of destruction by amping up the vibrations to the next setting unexpectedly, just as the waitress is placing Keith’s entree in front of him. He jolts upward so suddenly, catches a garble of a groan so hard in his mouth that the muffled sound that leaves his tightly-clamped lips is more similar to some kind of motor sputtering out. And when she turns to apologize and ask if he’s okay, he’s positive that his cheeks are so astonishingly red that she must be worried that he’s going into cardiac arrest.

“F- _ fine _ —I’m, I’m fine. Thanks. I’m… I-I’m perfectly good. Thanks.”

She seems a little bit nervous to leave them alone again, but torn between that altruistic feeling of concern and very reasonable desire to get the Hell out of this awful, awkward situation. Lance, casual and blithe and so goddamn cocky that Keith might kick him under the table if he weren’t suddenly frozen by the rattle of that horrible little toy whirring inside of him, thankfully, at least, has the decency to wave her off. 

She scurries away at a speed that Keith’s jumbled thoughts consider to be almost inhuman, but moments later, she might as well have never existed, he forgets her so fast. He grits his teeth again, wheezing out another strangled breath and tucking his ankles against the legs of his chair as though that might alleviate the feeling currently rising inside of him. His hands are pressing the napkin in his lap over the tent of his erection in a death grip so tight that his arms tingle at the force of it. He hisses out a curse, waves of warmth and vibrations of pleasure washing over his skin as the egg, now tucked just against his prostate, skitters sensations so terribly intense straight through him that he has a hard time not coming here and now.

Lance’s voice slices through the thick of pleasure, like a knife edging the bubble wrapped around his head.

“My chicken is really good,” he says simply, voice fringed with enough sarcasm that it’s nearly palpable, “You haven’t touched your food yet, Keith. Do you need me to cut it up for you?”

Keith leverages the last of his strength, focusing his chi, his aura, his entire heart and soul into the substantial effort that it takes to send Lance his hottest, angriest glare.

Lance, entirely too unaffected, taps his fork into the side of his plate. The sound of it clicking is similar to a jackhammer digging into Keith’s skull. Every noise around him in now amplified—the conversations from surrounding tables mingling together, the tap of Lance’s cutlery, the buzzing of the lights overhead and the sensation so intense that he can almost hear it rattling his bones, of the toy relentlessly assaulting him.

Once again, just as suddenly as the first time, the vibrations stop.

“You doing okay, buddy?”

Lance’s voice is light and airy, but weighed down, even still, with his own shit-eating smugness.

Keith gulps hard, dragging in a long breath of air, as though he’s just submerged from underwater. Sweat beads at his hairline. His skin feels damp and way too hot.

“Fuck you.”

Lance’s smile curls up higher around the edges. 

“You wish, don’t you?”

And, once again, Keith eases down from that high. He collects himself enough that he risks a look around him. No one else seems to have caught wind of what they’re doing here, despite how poor of a job he feels that he’s done at covering it up. But he’s proud of himself for staying quiet, at least. He can’t help but relish the thought that Lance wouldn’t have lasted even half as long in his position. Lance, surely, would have been wailing the moment that he tested the lowest setting.

But there are more to come, he knows. He’s not even halfway done with his side of the bet by now. Lance still seems wholly convinced that he can win this, but he should know by now that while Keith is sorely lacking in the more cunning and conniving ways that Lance can often trick him, he makes up for it tenfold in determination, in discipline, in his paramount willfulness to see this through to the end so he can get some semblance of revenge.

He remembers, even now, even as his shaking, clumsy hands fumble with his cutlery and his stomach feels entirely too tied in knots to even consider downing his food, that there’s a good reason for all of this. He’s doing this for their home, for his own livelihood, and even for Lance. This is for both of their own good, for the  _ greater good _ , for the sake of continuing life in the comfort and security that they’ve both just now begun getting used to.

He takes advantage of this calm to focus on his food. He isn’t nearly hungry enough to stomach it, but he knows that Lance won’t let this date finish if he doesn’t at least make an attempt to eat. He cuts off a few narrow pieces of steak, which was apparently the special that he overlooked, and goes through the motions of chewing and swallowing without really thinking about it. He’s robotic for a long moment, he challenges Lance’s bluff now, that he’d ever be mean enough to turn on the toy again while Keith is trying to eat.

And, at least, this time, he’s right. Lance leaves him alone, but whether he does so for the sake of being kind, or if maybe he’s just trying to amp up the suspense, Keith doesn’t really care. The food feels heavy in his belly, so he takes a sip of his drink. He levels Lance with a look then, watching him as though he might be able to predict when he’ll attack next just by some subtle change in his expression. 

But there’s no sign of anything except Lance enjoying his food as he spears a juicy chunk of chicken into his mouth, chews, and swallows. 

“Mmm,” he hums, exaggerated, not taking his eyes off of Keith. “The food is great, right?” 

Keith doesn’t answer. Instead, he continues to watch him like a hawk as he goes for his drink again, his mouth feeling uncomfortably, nervously dry. He takes a mouthful of water before setting his drink down. 

It’s that same mouthful of water that then ends up half splattered across his food. And the other half nearly ends up obstructing his airway as he tries to inhale through his full mouth. 

All this mess? It’s thanks to the very sudden, very inescapable jolt from inside of him. He coughs and splutters, trying to regain control of his body, completely overwhelmed and overcome by the sensation and the buzz. 

Lance laughs at him, excited. “Does that count as making noise? I think that counts as making noise.” 

“That—” Keith’s voice breaks. He stops, takes a deep breath, and tries again. He has to focus on each word that’s coming out to make sure it comes out the right way, and not the moaning, raspy way that they want to. “That doesn’t count as making noise.”

But Keith knows he’s close to something that could count as making noise, so he shuts his mouth right after saying the words, preventing his mouth from forming a sound wordless, filthy, and uncontrolled. It works, though it’s a near thing. Because it’s impossible to ignore how sensitive he is where the toy is pressed against him. The way it feels so  _ good _ inside of him. How no matter what kinds of unsexy or gross images he conjures up in his brain the reality is his senses are overloaded with the unrelenting feeling and Lance’s stupid, beautiful face in front of him. 

He tries to dab up the spilt water with his napkin but his hands are shaking. His heart is pounding, his breath is coming fast through his nose. He has his teeth clenched shut but it’s still a fight in every second to not let his voicebox vibrate, to hum a quiet moan. He can feel his thighs twitching with the sensation, the strain, his muscles tightening as his body gives in to the feeling. He doesn’t have to look down to know that he’s leaking a wet spot into the front of his pants, and he’s going to have to be creative when he eventually stands up. 

“You feeling alright?” Lance says, radiating mock innocence. “Are you sick?”

“No,” growls Keith, all daggers with his stare. 

To be honest, he’s feeling better than alright, but he can’t let that on. If he does, he loses. And he won’t lose. 

As Keith’s finishing up dabbing at the tablecloth, the waitress reappears at their tableside, cautious eyes hidden behind a cheerful smile. Keith has the fleeting mental thought that they need to tip her extra, but it’s gone in the next second as he tries to keep himself from openly panting. 

“Did the food come out okay?” she asks. 

“Yeah, it’s great!” Lance replies as Keith manages to grind out a low, “Yes.”

“Awesome! Can I get you more water?”

She gestures towards Keith’s glass, which is resting beside his plate only a quarter full after his failed attempts at ingesting it. 

What Keith means to say is, “Okay,” but what happens instead is that his entire body jerks. He has to reach out and grab the edge of the table to steady himself, slam his eyes shut, and try to make his breath not tremble as he exhales deeply. 

Apparently, Lance had thought this was an opportune moment to jack the intensity up. It wasn’t, and now Keith is suffering. 

“Uh, alright,” he’s vaguely aware of the waitress saying. “No water then.”

“Thanks!” Lance calls after her, and it isn’t until Keith is certain she’s walked away that he feels comfortable opening his eyes. His hands are still clenched tight around the table’s edge. The firm feeling of it in his grip is the only thing keeping him together right now, giving him something to focus on instead of the way his heart is beating so fast and so hard it seems to be filling his entire chest. 

Every motion he makes is complete sweet agony. His cock is rubbing against the inside of his pants, and he’s desperate for more but he wishes it were less. He’s being mercilessly hammered from the inside anyway. Keith’s never cum before just from prostate stimulation, and he doesn’t want this to be his first because he knows if he reaches that point he might not be able to hold himself back.

But no matter how much he tries to force it down, he can feel that building, that tightening, that tension rising in his gut. He knows no matter how much he wishes for it not to happen, it will eventually get to the point where he can’t restrain it anymore, can’t hope the feeling will simply go away when he shuts his eyes and holds his breath. 

And Lance is sitting across from him looking like the cat who got the cream, prematurely smug and triumphant. Keith doesn’t know what Lance sees in his face that is giving him that reaction. It’s probably something incredibly incriminating. He wonders if anyone in this place glanced his way, if they could read the bitten-back pleasure written clearly in his mouth, his eyes. 

Keith’s expensive meal is still barely touched before him, but he doesn’t think he’s going to eat any more of it now. He can bring it home to eat after he’s chewed Lance out, preferably between his thighs. Because there’s no way Lance is getting off the hook easily after this, in every way that Keith can think of. 

But he’s not done making things worse yet.

“Ready to give up?” Lance goads, and  _ god _ even the low, sly sound of his voice makes Keith want to let out the pent-up sounds that he’s trapping behind the teeth clamped down on his lower lip. 

But on the other hand, his words rekindle the flames of his determination. There’s no way Keith is going to  _ give up _ . Especially not when Lance is already smirking at him like he thinks he’s won. 

He shoves up from the table quickly, hoping with disjointed, scrambled thoughts that perhaps if he carries himself with enough confidence, people won’t even think to look down at the mess of water over the front of his shirt, or the undeniable tenting just between his legs. He fixes Lance with a look as hot as it is brief, offers him a simple and clipped, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

And before Lance can argue that the bathroom is off limits, that somehow this is against a shaky rubric of rules that they’d barely set down as the foundation of this terrible, ill-conceived bet, Keith is already tearing in the direction of where he assumes a bathroom in a nice restaurant would be—nearer to the kitchen and beyond one of the narrow counters where hostesses are conversing with patrons. Far into the belly of this place, with its thankfully low lighting and the tables filled with customers far too invested in their own meals and conversations to offer him much more than a fleeting glance.

He finds the bathroom just a little bit further away, tucked in a short hallway with silver-plated signs identifying which is for women, which is for men, and he shoves inside without paying much attention. At the back of his thoughts, he’s relieved to be met with rows of empty urinals and a few uninhabited stalls. He knows that barging into the women’s restroom with a very obvious hard-on probably would have made this night go from bad to disastrous. 

But he understands deep down that he isn’t actually having a bad time here either. There’s a part of him, small and nagging like a needle slowly burying itself deeper into the back of his skull, that knows that he probably could have weaseled his way out of this if he really did hate it that much. If he told Lance firmly to turn the toy off, they’d finish their dinner and go home to have a conversation about all of this. Even if he’d lost the bet tonight, he suspects that Lance would have made some sort of effort to keep his voice down later on.

Lance isn’t belligerent and he isn’t a bad person, a mean lover, or so totally obtuse that he doesn’t understand why Keith cares so much about those complaints. The game was more of a formality, more of an excuse for the two of them to raise imaginary stakes and assign some petty level of importance to something that might have been a simple back and forth for any other couple.

So why play the game at all? Why put himself in this situation, this humiliating, stressful, agonizing situation, if it means nothing in the end? Why play along when he knows that Lance heard him loud and clear over breakfast, when he knows that Lance isn’t going to be louder just to piss him off, even if he loses?

Well…

For fun, he guesses. Because secretly, beyond the bickering and the glares and the arguments and Lance trying his hardest to get under his skin, they both know that he enjoys this. They both know that there’s some gross part of him that’s found all of this sexier than he would have ever expected before. Lance knows that he can be a pervert, given the right set of circumstances. And he knows that Lance sometimes likes to take control, to be the sadistic one, to be the bad guy.

It’s the cat and mouse of this all, the feeling of being inhibited. The need and the danger, and the realization that at some point tonight, he remembers once again with a sharp inhale, Lance is going to have to help him take the toy out. 

He pushes through one of the stall doors and plants his back firmly against it. In the safety of it, all alone in this cramped, poorly-lit bathroom, he allows his knees to knock and his thighs to shake. He flushes somehow even hotter as a rogue whine slips past his lips and echoes in all of the empty openness. It smells like potpourri in here, musky and perfumey, masking an ever-present lingering stink of cleaning supplies. It’s dank too-white, and every bit as unsexy as any other public bathroom that Keith has ever wandered into. Uniform and starchy white. The smell of bleach tickles the back of his throat.

He snakes down a hand and gropes at himself through the front of his pants. His head tips back, taps against the bathroom door. His knees threaten to buckle, he’s shaking so hard.

And inside—

_ Bzzzzz, bzzzz, bzzzz _

The toy assaults him relentlessly. 

He isn’t touching himself with any level of finesse or carefulness that he might if he were wrapped up in the blankets and the comforter on his shared bed back at the apartment. He isn’t taking his time or being gentle as he might if he were touching Lance instead. He’s pawing at himself in an impassioned, frenzied way akin to some kind of animal in heat. He’s caged fingers in front of his lips, earnest about keeping his bet with Lance through thick and thin and even all alone in here. But he needs some relief. He needs to feel the pressure and the heat of skin pressed against him. He finds that in his palm, tucked up tight and feeling the hardness of himself through the rough fabric of his pants. He finds it when he pushes his backside firmer against the bathroom door and feels the toy jostled and prodded with more conviction against that sweet spot inside of him that makes stars spring up behind the dark, closed lids of his eyes.

He’s breathless and wanton and he’s thinking about how Lance often spreads out wide, how his sweat-slicked skin glistens in the moonlight filtered through their open blinds. How Lance, when he’s feeling good, isn’t reserved about expressing it. How his blunted nails drag tingling trails over Keith’s back when he buries himself inside. How Lance’s long legs feel coiled around him, pushing him further, deeper in. 

He’s cupping his hand over his mouth now. His breath is hot and dewy against his palm. His eyes, screwed tightly closed, his skin crawling with heat and a humming pleasure as the egg continues its invariable whirring. 

He’s getting close, already. He feels like a virgin again. He feels like he’s enduring the same old sensations in a body far too inexperienced to accommodate them. This feeling of euphoria and a desperate clamoring for control as his body is pushed further and further to the edge, it reminds him in a pitiful and over-romantic way of the first time that Lance sneaked a hand down the front of his pants and teased him. How he’d edged that pleasure and drawn it out, and how Keith himself had felt foolish for unwinding in his hands. How he’d felt too vulnerable and small and silly, but Lance had caught him. He’d kissed him. And the two of them, for many months and years later, had grown together in a cadence of their bodily wants and needs. Lance could pick him apart and put him back together. Lance would never push him further than he was strong enough to go.

He’d known that this stupid toy would drive Keith wild because he’s always known Keith better than anyone else.

Keith feels almost more bared and naked about the fact that someone enters the bathroom while he’s reminiscing about these childish, romantic things than he does about the fact that he’s still groping himself, still obviously pressed against the door if they were to peek at his feet through the gap of the stall. He feels almost more exposed as a total sap than he does a disgusting pervert, and while he might wonder if his priorities are a little out of whack in a better state of mind, all that he can do now is freeze, clamp his hand ever-tighter against his mouth, and hope that the egg isn’t buzzing loudly enough that whoever wandered in here can hear it.

The sputtered  _ ba-dumping _ of his heart clogs his ears. The feeling of his legs weak and shuddering and ready to fold underneath him threatens whatever semblance of security he has behind this closed door. He didn’t even latch the lock. If he falls, maybe the door will creak open, just a little bit. Maybe this poor man who walked in on him will get an eyeful like he’s never gotten before, and Keith doesn’t like the excitement that lingers with the mortification at the mere concept of that.

But nothing happens for a long moment. Keith holds himself up with his shoulders and his back propped against the door. His hand stalls above his still-trapped erection. The egg continues to vibrate. The footsteps stop just a stall away from the one in which he currently hides.

And then, three knocks, against the other side of his door.

“Keith?” Lance’s voice is a relief that he’s never felt so intensely in his life. He breathes in a jagged, stilted way, a sigh of repose that he hadn’t even felt trapped in his lungs just moments ago. “Keith, buddy, everything okay in there? Do you want me to turn it off?”

Keith scrambles then to turn around, and he knocks his elbows against the door, into the side of it. His clumsy fingers struggle against the latch of a handle, and he’s grabbed Lance and shoved him inside with such strength, speed, and precision that both of them are surprised to find themselves nose-to-nose in this stall together just seconds later. 

And then, just as quickly, Keith is on Lance. Lips on lips, then teeth on throat, and a hand slid between them and palming a firm tent of  _ something _ at the front of Lance’s pants. Keith is fervent and desperate in his exploration, lacking any of the whimsical romanticism that he might have felt just moments prior. 

He needs this now. He needs it like he’s never needed anything in his life before. Lance is croaking out noises that might be words but Keith’s blood runs hot and his heart is pounding, and the egg is humming so intensely inside of him that coherence is suddenly an impossible feat. 

For a moment, Keith indulges in the brief fantasy of turning Lance around, pinning him to the side of the stall, working his jeans down over his hips until he’s bared to Keith and sliding into his tight warm heat, even as the egg rumbles away inside of him. But Keith is also aware that he’s far too close for that to be feasible. Lance isn’t prepped and Keith definitely doesn’t have the presence of mind to do that properly right now. The stretch would take too long, be too slow, and Keith can’t stop his hands from shaking. Do they even have lube? Maybe somewhere, but….

He’ll just have to tuck that idea away for later. Right now he needs a different game plan instead. Something to quell both his vicious need for release and his hunger for Lance’s body. Except he can’t really think straight beyond  _ get your tongue in Lance’s mouth _ and  _ feel Lance up through his pants _ , so it isn’t until Lance slips a hand between their bodies too and begins stroking his fingers up and down the obvious imprint of Keith in his slacks that Keith realizes he needs to jerk into action before Lance makes him cum right here and now. 

Keith pulls back to take stock of the situation, and though he’s still hazy with arousal his brain manages to supply him with a piece of logic: you can’t moan out loud if your mouth is full. He drops to his knees. 

(Though he is aware somewhere in the back of his mind that you  _ can _ make noise with a cock in your mouth. Lance does it all the time. He sucks Keith off with the kind of pornographic noises that would be expected if their positions were flipped. As if just having his mouth full, having the weight of Keith on his tongue, is  _ so _ pleasurable that he can’t hold his hums and muffled groans back. Keith is determined to not be like him.) 

As Keith’s trembling hands unzip Lance’s pants, he can hear Lance rapidly chattering in a stage whisper overhead, stammering, asking irrelevant things like, “Wow, you’re really gonna do that  _ here _ ?” This will be a good exercise for both of them. Maybe Lance will be quiet for once in his life and not let every restaurant patron on the other side of that door know what’s going on in here. Or maybe he won’t. Keith can’t say that he even cares right now. He just needs his hands on Lance, and hopefully Lance’s hands on him. 

“God,  _ Keith _ ,” is what Lance says when Keith finally wrenches his pants and underwear down his thighs, wraps his hand around Lance, and leans in to lick the flat of his tongue against him. 

The taste is already thick with the tang of Lance’s precum. He must’ve gotten a lot more hot and bothered by Keith’s dinner table predicament than he was letting on with all his smug comments. It’s all the better, really. Keith can finish this quickly, and then maybe he can make Lance get him off, to take the toy out of him and replace it with something better. 

For now, he pushes his mouth down farther, tightening his lips, pressing his tongue against the bulk in his mouth. He pulls back with an enthusiasm that has Lance’s fingers clutching in his hair, his knees trembling, his voice growing louder as he sings unintelligible praises for Keith. He repeats the motion, swallowing around Lance and coaxing more and more of those noises from him, the same kind of noises that got them in this situation in the first place. 

And the entire time, his attention is split between giving loving care to part of Lance that’s in his mouth and the feeling that’s still shaking him to his core, the unending, incessant buzz against a place inside of him that makes him feel breathless. He has to resist the urge to grab at himself, because he knows that the combination of that with everything else that’s going on can and will wipe his mind of any sense of self, any care at all, and he’ll lose the bet immediately. 

“That feels amazing,” Lance babbles, his back leaning against the stall wall as his legs begin to tremble. “That feels so good Keith, don’t stop, please don’t stop—” 

He’s loud, he’s so loud, and Keith almost expects that any second someone will come in here to investigate, if not to kick them off the premises. But what does he care if they do? He’s having fun with his boyfriend who loves him, who loves his mouth and his hands and his body. It’s better than sitting back at that table with Lance’s hands on that remote and Keith doing everything within his power to not burst out then and there. 

Keith pulls off for a moment to catch his breath, but it’s impossible right now. He’s so turned on that he’s lightheaded with it. He tries to control his breathing, taking slow deep inhales as he strokes Lance in time, smearing his saliva up and down his length while Lance continues to moan and chatter. But  _ god _ , that toy. It won’t let him rest. 

He leans back in, tongue first, and the contact of his mouth on Lance’s head has Lance shouting, begging, his nails scratching against Keith’s scalp. Neither of them is going to last much longer like this. Not with all their bizarre extended foreplay over dinner, not with this setting, not with what’s vibrating inside of him. 

So Keith has to make a choice, and quickly. 

It’s barely even worth thinking about. He knows what he wants right now. It might not be the best gambit for winning this game, but that barely seems to matter anymore. He lets Lance hit the back of his throat one more time before pulling off for good and rising to his feet. 

“Keith,” Lance gasps, pants. It’s partially a question about what he’s doing but it’s mostly a plea. 

And to answer him, Keith simply unbuttons his pants and shoves them down his legs until they’re pooled around his ankles. 

His back is turned to Lance just as fast, his ass pressed up and out, extended and hopefully just as enticing for Lance as it feels needlessly and embarrassingly lewd for Keith. He’s braced against the wall of the stall, cooled by the chilled metal of it and ignoring how gross he’s going to feel about his face smashed against it. Surely, once his orgasm ebbs away and his thoughts clear, and he’s left only contented and freed from that toy, he’ll be left alone with his regret, humiliation, Lance’s dumb, smug smile, and the realization that this bet might have never really been about staying quiet at all.

If he’s honest with himself, he’ll admit that he must have suspected from the beginning that Lance wanted this—maybe not _ exactly _ this, sure, not for it to happen in a bathroom stall in an unlocked room where anyone could walk in at any point  _ specifically _ . But maybe Lance thought that he could make it long enough for them to go back to the car, maybe drive to some abandoned parking lot to mess around or even, maybe, Lance had enough faith in Keith’s resolve that he really expected that they’d manage to get home before Keith presented himself like this. But he still understands that the point of this was to have sex. It wasn’t to prove a point or to get his way. The anger was an excuse, the bet was a cover-up. At the end of the day, he’s allowed Lance to get exactly what he was vying after: him, alone, and desperate to be fucked. Keith, begging for his dick inside of him. Keith, stripped of his usual brusqueness and left only half-naked and wanton and so needy that Lance could touch him practically anywhere and it would probably still send him right over the edge.

He knows that in that way, he’s failed. He’s lost because he allowed Lance to trick him without even really tricking him. He played himself into Lance’s hand willingly, but if he’s honest, once again, he’ll admit that this is exactly what he’d wanted, as well, right from the beginning. Maybe this is what people mean when they say that relationships are all about give and take. Maybe this is healthy and not remotely weird at all.

He doesn’t really care about any of it right now. He just wants Lance to fuck him. He just wants to stop feeling like a shaken can, pent-up and ready to explode. He just wants to get a move on this before he comes from the feeling of the toy still buzzing inside of him, without even being touched at all.

His backside bumps against Lance, Lance’s cock slides up between his cheeks. They both shudder in anticipation, and Keith wants Lance inside of him so desperately that he’s willing to accept anything that he has to do, just to get there.

He bites off a keen when he feels Lance’s warm hands ghosting against his cheeks, trembling for a moment before grasping him harder, spreading him apart. His face burns when he thinks about what Lance must be seeing right now: his body exposed in such an embarrassing and perverted way, the cord of that toy tangled around itself. It’s worth it if Lance presses himself inside. It’s worth it if Lance finally removes the toy.

Lance slides his cock up and down, pressing Keith’s cheeks together and fucking, slowly and without direction or purpose between them. Keith’s moans rumble in his throat, but he tries his hardest to keep them quiet enough that maybe he won’t lose their bet. He grips his fingers tighter on the wall, sliding them over the slick material of it as his breath fans out hot and creates a thin, slow-fading condensation against the surface. He pushes his backside firmer against Lance, intent on getting as much stimulation from this as he can, now that he’s already so close to toppling over the edge into complete incoherence.

Lance tuts, gripping him tighter, pushing him and sandwiching his cock between Keith’s cheeks, hissing out a curse as Keith feels him twitch with need against his skin. The toy still buried inside of him hums and hums, and while the feeling of it drives him mad with dulled and frustrating muted pleasure, it’s definitely not enough to finish him off alone. His own cock hangs stiff and eager and touch-starved between his tightly-pressed thighs. He closes his eyes hard, digging his teeth into his bottom lip as he bucks back and upward once again. He doesn’t trust his voice, but maybe Lance can read his body language. Maybe if Lance sees how much he’s shaking, how much he’s pushing back, how desperately he’s trying to stay quiet—maybe Lance will actually take pity on him for once and move things along a little quicker than he might any other time.

It seems to work well enough, at least. Lance spreads him again, positions himself just at the part of Keith where the cord of the toy is coiled out. He’s pressed against Keith, as though he might slide in any moment. And Keith knows that there’s more than enough lube to accommodate him, still. He knows that he’d been more than liberal with it when he was preparing himself earlier in their apartment’s bathroom, because, deep down, he’d kind of suspected (and hoped) that something like this would happen.

But he’s still surprised when he feels it. When Lance shudders out a breathy,  _ “Fuck, Keith,” _ and pushes in. When he feels the thickness and heat of Lance filling him and pressing that toy even firmer into his prostate and the vibrations overwhelm him. Lance’s girth overwhelms him. The hands on his hips, the fingers straying downward to wrap around him and pump loosely. Keith is stalled and frozen in sudden maddening pleasure. A loud, uninhibited moan ripples through his throat and lets loose before he can catch it, echoing against the empty walls and bounding back to boom crudely in his red-tipped ears. Every inch of his sweat-dampened skin burns. Every part of him begs to be touched. Lance sheaths himself all the way inside. He pauses to hum with his own pleasure. He makes some comment about how tight Keith is, how good the toy feels pressed between them.

Keith can’t even articulate words at this point, can’t do anything but cry out as Lance pulls and pushes, as Lance thrusts in and out and continues to pump him with clumsy, shaking hands. Babbling and screaming and coming completely undone isn’t usually characteristic of Keith, even in the privacy of their bedroom. Being loud and causing a scene and finding himself lost in the onslaught of pleasure is more of Lance’s style. But he can’t control the noises that rattle out of him now. He can’t stop himself from moaning and keening and being simply carried away as Lance fucks him, as Lance touches him, as that toy stays tucked inside of him, only amplifying ever ounce of pleasure that he feels with its fervent whirring. 

And finally, the levee breaks. His resolve crumbles. His knees shake and lock together and he comes, and he cries out something that might be Lance’s name, something that might be a curse or just an unintelligible string of noises, or everything that’s building up so large in his chest that he’s powerless to contain it.

But Lance laughs when he comes. He grips him firmer around the hips and continues to thrust as Keith shakes through the oncoming waves of his orgasm. Lance, moments later, is folding against him, pressing his lips to Keith’s shoulder, surrounding him with warm, soft skin and the whisper of his voice and the feeling of his cum filling Keith inside. 

And they shake, and Keith’s skin feels like it’s been set on fire. They’re sweaty and disheveled and Lance’s hair is standing at all ends, his skin littered with love marks, his clothes so wrinkled and damp that they might look like they were wrestling in here if no one outside knew any better.

Lance pulls away and tugs Keith’s underwear up first. He buckles Keith’s pants, rubs the wrinkles out of his clothes with one hand that isn’t holding Keith’s mess extended away from his body. He’s smiling when he presses his lips against Keith’s cheek, and Keith realizes only belatedly that the toy stopped buzzing inside of him what must have been minutes ago.

Keith rights himself and turns his back to rest against the wall of the stall just as Lance finishes cleaning his hand off with some toilet paper from the roll. He tosses it into the toilet, sending Keith a wry grin when the automatic sensors flush it down. He buttons his own pants, zips up his fly and fiddles absentmindedly with his belt. In his pocket, Keith spots the outline of the remote, and for a flash of a moment, he worries that Lance might activate it once they get back to their table.

Keith’s eyes flick from it to Lance’s face. Lance is watching him as though he’s calculating all of his thoughts from each of his slow-changing expressions.

“I already paid the bill,” he says quietly, “I packed up our food and put it in the car.”

Keith swallows, his voice feeling far too shaky and uneasy to speak. He rubs his hands together before fretting nervously with the front of his shirt. He can feel Lance’s eyes roving over him. He’s painfully aware of the fact that he can hear some of the noise from the restaurant filtering through the bathroom door. He knows what that means. He understands it painfully well, but he’s definitely not willing to think about it right now.

“W-well,” Keith says finally, pausing only to drag in a deep breath and to will down the heat still simmers against his cheeks, “You won, so—”

“We’re not done yet.”

His eyes find Lance’s. His words die on his tongue. Lance waves a hand in the air, patting the remote in his pocket with the other.

“We still have the ride home. And walking up the stairs. And making it to the bedroom. I’m not giving up just because _ someone _ had to be noisy in the bathroom.”

His smile is positively sinister. His canines poke out of the corners of his upturned lips. His eyes sparkle with a mischievousness that sends a shudder of something that is decidedly more excitement than fear up Keith’s spine.

And Keith, too, can’t stop himself from grinning in return.

“And one more thing,” he says. Lance’s grin falters, he looks to Keith as though he doesn’t understand, as though he can’t remember if he’d forgotten an important part of the bet that they’d outlined just last night.

Keith draws nearer, cupping Lance’s chin in his hands, pressing a light kiss against his lips.

“We have to try the toy on you, too.”

It’s impressive, really, how quickly Lance makes it to the car after that. Keith isn’t sure if he’s ever seen him so eager to get back to their apartment since they moved in. 

But he can’t blame him, not really.

He can’t deny that he’s pretty excited too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Mai! Epi and I both hope from the bottom of our hearts that you genuinely enjoyed this silly story as much as we enjoyed writing it for you! If you remember correctly, hilariously enough, a few weeks ago, I did some “sleuthing” and asked if you liked the concept of public vibrators and you were so… so funny. You basically outlined this entire story for us and we were SO positive that you knew what you were doing, but… even still, it was a blast writing this for you! We hope that you have a really lovely birthday and that this next year is just as amazing and gentle and wonderful as you are. 
> 
> To everyone else, thanks so much for reading! We hope you enjoyed it as well! <3


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